


drunk off the awe of you

by queenliest (orphan_account)



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/queenliest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your boyfriend, Luke, is drunk. It is up to you to take care of him... or is it the other way around instead? </p><p>
  <b> [Luke Hemmings/Reader] </b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	drunk off the awe of you

* * *

Luke was drunk. 

You could tell that he—your boyfriend—had had a little too much of the free whiskey provided by the host of this party—a man whose name you didn’t know—by the way he looked. His cheeks were flushed and rivulets of sweat were pouring out from his body; sure, he was wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and that could also add to the factor of why he was sweating a lot, but you knew better. Even if he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt—which you always saw him in—he wouldn’t be sweating like crazy unless he was drunk. And he was. 

His steps were wobbly, too, as though he had been walking on the moon and his balance was catching him off guard. He was walking around the room and trying to interact with everybody in his drunken state, and it would’ve been cute to watch him, except that he clearly had had too much and that he needed to go home and rest. 

“Hey, **(Your Name)** ,” Luke said, walking—or wobbling, in his current state—in your direction. He was carrying two glasses of whiskey in his hands and he offered one to you. 

“Hey, Luke,” you greeted back, shaking your head and refusing the drink he was offering you. You saw him frown a little but paid no attention to it. 

“Are you enjoying the party?” he asked, giggling and laughing like an idiot. 

You looked around your surroundings. The area you were in—at the host’s living room in his large mansion—clearly was large enough for a party. There were tonnes of women wearing dresses of different designs and colours, and tonnes of men wearing suits and tuxedoes of different colors. 

You and Luke had chosen not to be formal, though. 

You had decided to wear a simple short dress—a white dress with spaghetti straps and a flowy skirt—and Luke had decided to wear a long-sleeved red and black chequered flannel. 

Decorations were elegant and wonderful; a large chandelier hung in the center of the room. Paintings created by famous artists hung on the walls. The place was clearly beautiful and expensive looking, though it lacked the ‘party feel’. There was no music—just the sound of soft laughter and small talks and glasses making contact against each other. It felt like you were all just enjoying a nice bottle of whiskey and having a nice chitchat with each other; it felt too formal and it made you feel uncomfortable. You felt conscious of yourself; you felt as though no matter how polite the people were being, they were still secretly judging you and your boyfriend being attending together in the same party. 

“No,” you finally said. 

“No?” he repeated, looking confused. 

“No,” you agreed. 

“Why?” His words were a little slurred, and he put a hand on your shoulder, trying to comfort you. It didn’t do you any good, though. You were worried for your boyfriend. As much as you’d like to admit that he was cute when he was drunk, this had become way overboard and you needed to get him home now. 

“You’re drunk,” you said. 

“Uh, nice try pointing it out, Captain Obvious,” he said, giggling. 

You sighed, shaking your head. “We’re going home.” 

“No!” he protested. “I’m not drunk!” 

“You clearly are.” 

“Just a little tipsy,” he said. “But I’m not drunk.” 

“Same thing,” you said. 

And you proceeded to grab his wrist, pulling him along with you and getting him inside your car, all the while ignoring his protests of not being drunk. 

“You’re mean,” he said, pouting, when you had managed in successfully making him sit in the shotgun seat beside you. 

You ignored his words, starting the engine of the car and proceeding to drive the rest of the way home. 

\- 

You laid him gently on your bed after you had removed his socks and clothes, leaving him wearing nothing but his undershirt and pants. 

“It’s cold without socks on,” he whined, and you let out a little laugh, pulling the blankets over him. 

“Good night,” you whispered, leaning down to place a kiss on his forehead. 

When you were about to leave, however, you felt his hand tugging on the hem of your shirt—which you had changed into just a while ago. 

“Don’t go yet,” he said. His voice was soft and low and gentle. He was no longer slurring, and it made you wonder whether he was just faking his drunken act or if his drunkenness had truly faded away like the moon in the morning sky. 

“Why?” you asked, gently prying away his hand from your shirt. 

“Cuddle,” he said; his hand moved so that he was now gripping your wrist instead of your shirt. 

“Cuddle,” he repeated and you sighed. 

“Okay,” you said, giving in to his whims. He’d let go of your wrist and you climbed onto the bed, lying beside him. 

His arms automatically wrapped around your form, and he’d pulled your body close to him. Your head was buried in his chest, and you could smell the faint scent of whiskey on him, as well as the scent that you had become familiar with over the past few years—musky and a mixture of something else you didn’t quite know but had learned to love. He was warm and his presence was comforting you, almost lulling you to sleep. 

It felt like all the fatigue and weariness you had accumulated from the past few weeks had come rushing back, flooding back inside your body and flowing quickly through your veins and system. 

You felt yourself yawning, felt yourself feeling weary and tired. You closed your eyes and breathed in his scent, letting his familiar scent invade your nose. 

“You’re drunk,” you said, your voice as soft as a whisper, burying your head deeper in his chest. 

“What?” he asked. He didn’t sound drunk anymore; he sounded sleepy. His finger started tracing unrecognizable patterns on the small of your back; his touch was relaxing and comforting and it was slowly pulling you toward oblivion. 

“You’re drunk,” you repeated once more, muttering the words against his chest, though your voice was being muffled by his shirt. 

“I’m not,” he said; you could feel the vibrations coming from his chest as he started chuckling. 

“You are,” you protested, but even your words sounded nonsensical to your ears. 

He chuckled once more. 

“Good night,” he said, whispering, pressing a kiss against your hair. 

You grunted, signifying that you had heard him, but he took it as you wishing him good night as well, and he laughed softly. 

The last thing you remembered was the sound of his pleasantly sounding laughter and the warm feel of his hand tracing patterns across your back. 

\- 


End file.
